


What it looks like to forget (it's easier that way)

by dearericbittle (dutchmoxie)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Competitive Flirting, Fluff, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Derek Hale, Rituals, Temporary Amnesia, in which amnesia helps derek get his shit together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21649831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dutchmoxie/pseuds/dearericbittle
Summary: He has no idea who he is, but the stranger with the whiskey eyes is calling him Derek. And the guy has been sitting at his bedside for three days, so he’s got some credit. Especially because the guy smells like he should be his - though that is a supremely weird thought that he probably needs to figure out first.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 62
Kudos: 1533





	What it looks like to forget (it's easier that way)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bee4u](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee4u/gifts).



> For Cal, for being an awesome person who supports my writing always. Hope things get better for you soon!

The stranger with the whiskey-colored eyes is still there when he wakes up on a cold table in a dank and damp room. It doesn’t look like a hospital, but it smells of medicine somehow, and even a little of death and decay, and… how can he even smell that? 

He sits up in one graceful movement, because his back must be freezing, pressed up against the cold table like that. He cracks his neck, because it makes him feel more solid in his body, and then he tries to take stock of himself. 

Shirtless - because of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be shirtless in a freezing room? It’s not like he’s supposed to get better here, right? Pneumonia is still a thing. 

But is he actually naked? Fully, completely naked? 

“Derek,” the stranger strides towards him, a frown on his face. 

Derek? Who is...

“Derek?”

He repeats the word dumbly, because while he knows that’s a name, he doesn’t know why the stranger is yelling it at him. His name isn’t Derek, his name is… Oh. 

What is his name?

Okay, that’s not good. That is definitely not good. He is in what looks like a murder basement, there is a stranger frowning at him, he can feel his bare ass against the cold wood of the table, and he has no idea who he is. 

But he can’t tell anyone that, especially not this stranger. Because he doesn’t know this person, doesn’t know if they can be trusted. For all he knows, this guy could have kidnapped him (Derek?) and undressed him and now he’s planning… something. 

“Not funny, asshole,” the stranger punches him in the arm. 

It hurts for a fraction of a second, but then the pain fades away. The stranger is left cradling his fist angrily, before unclenching and just flailing around with the apparently injured hand. 

“Biceps of steel,” the stranger mutters under his breath. 

Overhearing him is really easy, even though he shouldn’t be able to hear that. He shouldn’t be able to hear the a-rhythmic thump of what he’s suspecting is the stranger’s heartbeat. It speeds up when the stranger finally notices his (Derek’s?) nakedness, and the scent of what he believes to be caramel in the air gets heavier somehow. 

“Why am I naked?” Derek - he must be Derek - decides to ask the pertinent question. 

Everything else can be figured out later - maybe if he finds his clothes, he will find his possessions and he can just put enough information together to build a profile on this Derek guy he’s apparently supposed to be. He doesn’t even know how old he is, his last name - he doesn’t even know what he looks like. He’s got a first name, accidentally told to him by a strange young man who puts him on edge in every fucking way. 

“Oh yeah, Deaton isn’t usually this much of a pervert,” the stranger can’t even look him in the eye, too distracted at his body. 

It’s… nice. He likes it. He likes that this boy-man likes the look of him. 

Were they - are they? 

“Clothes,” Derek doesn’t ask this time. 

“Seriously, Sourwolf,” the stranger huffs at him. “You’re still having a bit of trouble there. See, when you ask a question, you’re supposed to sound different.” 

Sourwolf?

So is this how he normally interacts with him, with this stranger who is tall and lithe and wiry and smirks at Derek like he’s holding something over him. It must be, because the stranger hasn’t joked about pod people and clones and imposters yet, and he seems like the type who would. He seems like the kind of person who’d figure out what was wrong with Derek. 

And that would be bad. That  _ is _ bad. He needs more time to regroup, to get himself together, to know who this guy is and what he means to Derek. 

But how is he supposed to get those clues, sitting naked on a table?

“Clothes?” Derek exaggerates in how his voice goes up at the end of the word. 

“Such an asshole,” the stranger tells him almost proudly. “At least that didn’t get knocked out of your head. Apparently you’re going to be a bit of a mess for the foreseeable future. Deaton gave you the good drugs, but the side-effects are a doozy. Fuck, that’s a good word. Doozy.” 

The way that this guy talks is… unusual. He rambles and pauses for a second or two, and then rambles some more, as if his brain is working too fast for his mouth to keep up. But not too fast for Derek to keep up, apparently. 

“Are you high?” He does have to ask that question. 

“Just Adderall,” a wink from the stranger. “See, I took my medicine like a good boy, for once. Because there was nothing else to do here except sit on my cute ass and wait for you to wake up already. It’s been three days, big guy. You really don’t need that much beauty sleep.” 

The hidden compliment makes him grin, slightly. He can feel his facial muscles moving into a grin, at least. He doesn’t know what that looks like on him, though. He doesn’t know what anything looks like at this point. How can he get himself to a mirror without outing himself to this curious stranger? Is he just going to have to trust this guy? 

That makes him feel… odd. He scratches at his jaw, surprised to feel something that is somewhere between stubble and an actual beard. Right, that at least gives him a sense of his own age - or at least that he isn’t as young as this stranger. 

“Three days?” Derek dumbly repeats. 

“I know,” the stranger acts like Derek is having an actual conversation with him, instead of just dumbly repeating what he’s saying. “Why am I not back at school?” 

School? Is this guy in high school? He looks young, but is he that young? Is Derek that kind of creep who gets way too close to teenagers because he can’t relate to actual adults? Is he the kind of person that he’s always despised because they remind him of… someone? A blonde woman, angry, evil, touching him, fire. Bad. 

So he has some memories, some sense memories of what he believes to be his childhood. He still has no way to put it all together, though. 

“Derek,” the stranger whines, “this is where you’re supposed to say, gee Stiles, why aren’t you back at school? Were you that worried about little old me? You really didn’t need to do that.” 

Stiles? What’s a Stiles? Is that supposed to be an actual name? He doesn’t want to sound like one of those old people who’ve forgotten they were ever young, but aren’t people supposed to have, well, actual names? Instead of… whatever this is. 

“That’s not how I talk,” Derek tells the ridiculously named stranger. 

He knows that much about himself. That does not feel natural, and therefore it cannot be the way he talks, and clearly this Stiles guy is making fun of him. Again. 

It’s probably his natural state of being. 

“You missed your cue,” Stiles is practically pouting now. 

And Derek is not staring at his damn mouth, no sir. He is not noticing anything about this possible high school student who’s apparently been at his bedside for three days. And why would he do that? What would make anyone want to do that? They’re not family, he doesn’t think, and unless they are lifelong friends, it seems a bit much. But… Stiles doesn’t smell like his, so… And wow, isn’t that a trippy thought to have. 

“Don’t care,” Derek pointedly waits for Stiles to move on. 

“Okay, some gratitude would be nice here, dude,” Stiles huffs. “I told my professors I had a family emergency, and surprisingly they weren’t assholes about it. And I wasn’t even lying, not really. Because pack is family. You’ve said so before, when you were the shittiest of Alphas.” 

Professors - so at least this Stiles guy is in college, and not in high school. But Derek really has to wonder what kind of college this is, and what kind of fraternity they are a part of. Because maybe that’s why he feels like there’s a connection here. Frat brothers. 

And the frat is called Alpha… Something. 

Fuck, he still knows nothing. He’s got nothing to go off here. 

“Why would you stay here for three days?” Gratitude it is not. 

“Because I’m awesome,” Stiles is rolling his eyes at Derek. “Because you were not in your right mind and I’m apparently the only person who can handle you like that. Because I couldn’t just leave you alone where people could take advantage of you. We’ve learned from Jennifer/Julia slash whatever the fuck her name was. And that thing last year with that guy we don’t talk about. No more letting you run off alone, like ever.” 

Julia? Jennifer? That thing with that guy? Honestly, none of this is ringing any bells for him, and judging from the way Stiles is talking about this, he probably doesn’t want it to. Derek does not want to know about all of the ways people have been shitty to him, have taken advantage of him because he trusted the wrong person yet again. 

Is that why his trust in Stiles feels… weird and different and good? 

“I don’t need a babysitter, Stiles,” Derek has to point that out. 

“That’s up for debate,” Stiles thinks everything is up for debate - always has and always will. “Deaton said you wouldn’t be yourself, and that people could take advantage of you really easily and that’s just not happening on my watch. No sirree. You’d get all broody and sad and disappointed, and I think I’ve just barely managed to train that out of you.” 

Who the fuck is this Deaton guy? A doctor? Stiles has mentioned him a few times in relation to Derek’s foggy mind, so it seems like doctor is the best bet. But if this Deaton guy is a doctor, then why the hell did Derek woke up naked on a table in a creepy room? 

“So you’re not going to take advantage of my confusion?” Derek tries really hard not to be too much of an asshole about this. 

Because Stiles would absolutely have a prank or two up his sleeve - and he’d record it to show to Derek later once his mind was back to normal. It would probably be something relatively harmless yet extremely embarrassing, something that Derek could easily come back from without any lasting psychic damage. 

“Way to lay on the guilt trip, dude,” Stiles doesn’t smell of embarrassment, though. 

Not really. 

“What did you expect?” Derek is finding it easy to banter with Stiles. 

“More growling,” Stiles is ready with the comeback so quickly. “Less nakedness. I’d somehow forgotten about that bit, and if you want we can totally kill Deaton for that, because while I’m sure the you being naked was necessary for the cleansing ritual, there is no reason for you to still be naked. Other than embarrassing me by comparison. Because dude, not fair.” 

How can Stiles be so open about his appreciation of Derek’s body? Is this something he thinks he can do because Derek is supposed to be confused and might not remember all of this later? Like getting away scot free with something he wouldn’t dare do normally? Or is this something Stiles just does all the time? And if so, why the hell hasn’t Derek done anything about it? 

This is Stiles, and he’s… kind of stupidly perfect for Derek. 

(Great, he doesn’t know his own last name, but that he does remember.)

“So, clothes?” Derek knows he’s doing something angry with his eyebrows. 

“I’ll text the pack,” Stiles nods decisively. “They’ll bring you some of your own stuff. Because I’m sure you don’t want any clothes with someone else’s stink on them.” 

Stiles has a point, but also…. If the clothes have Stiles’ scent on them, he is certainly not going to mind that, not at all. And that is not something he is ever going to say out loud. 

“Say thank you Stiles,” Stiles continues, because he’s that guy. 

“Fuck you,” Derek responds instead, because he’s  _ that  _ guy. 

And it makes Stiles smile, so that clearly cannot be a bad thing. He feels like Stiles doesn’t really smile enough, and if he had any more of an idea of what this thing between the two of them is, he’d make a promise to himself about making Stiles smile more. But since he still barely has the slightest of clues, that might be weird. 

“Seriously, Der-Bear,” Stiles is not letting anything go here. “How much longer are you going to pretend that you have any idea of what I’m talking about?” 

That fucking asshole! He’s known this whole time? 

Of course he has, why is Derek even surprised? This is Stiles after all, and he’s never going to walk away from a potential prank. Derek is more surprised that Stiles hasn’t milked it for longer, making Derek embarrass himself in front of other people, maybe this pack he’s mentioned a few times now. And yeah, that’s still a weird description of a frat. 

“What?” Derek finds himself growling at Stiles. 

“Didn’t I mention it?” Stiles looks particularly mischievous at this point. “Temporary amnesia is a really common side effect of the ritual. Stuff is going to come back to you slowly - it shouldn’t take you more than a couple of hours to be back to your grumpy Sourwolf self.” 

That definitely makes the growling a lot worse - which… That’s just... Derek has never thought of himself as weird before (well, not that he remembers anyway), but this is something he really does not understand about himself. Why the growling? It’s very animalistic, and he could just tell Stiles he’s being an asshole - and he should still do that. 

Oh, right. He’s a werewolf. That makes sense. 

It really does make sense. Like, suddenly everything about him has been framed in the proper context. So of course he can smell things that humans can’t, and of course Stiles has a stupid wolf-related nickname for him, and of course he has a pack that he was once the Alpha of (and not a particularly great one either). 

Stiles can never know that Derek thought they were in a fraternity. 

“I’m going to rip your throat out,” he warns Stiles. 

“With your teeth,” Stiles is actually smiling at the threat. “At least some of you is still there. I think that’s a good sign. Of course threatening me is the first thing you do.” 

Should that really be of course? That makes him sound like a terrible person, and well, he doesn’t know himself so maybe he is. But the fact that Stiles seems to think it’s completely normal for Derek to threaten him is kind of sad, even though the instinct to do the threatening felt completely normal to him. It didn’t feel like there was any real force behind the threat though - not like he would actually do this thing he was threatening Stiles with. 

He would never. He knows that much about himself. 

“That’s terrible,” Derek has to say it before the memories come back. “We’re pack. I shouldn’t be saying that, not even as a threat. That should not be normal.” 

Talia Hale taught him better than that. Oh, his mom was… Oh. Oh. 

Right, he should have expected that some of these memories were not going to be great. But then again, who could ever expect… that? Not Derek, that’s for damn sure. He hadn’t the first time around, and he couldn’t have this time. Still, the flare up of pain was temporary - the constant pain of being the reason he lost his family was almost… manageable at this point. He’s been living with it for years, after all. He's learned to function even with a gaping hole where his family should be. Though Stiles would probably say that the functioning is relative. 

“It’s not,” Stiles hops onto the table next to Derek. “It’s something you used to say when we first met. It’s just an inside joke now. You’re a good person, big guy. Don’t worry.” 

Is that really something he wants to contemplate at this point? He likes that Stiles is so quick to reassure him that Derek is a good person, that there isn’t even the hint of a lie there. Stiles believes that he is good, and that seems to be good enough - at least for now. Because it matters what Stiles thinks of him. It matters probably too much. 

Stiles’ long legs dangle off the edge of the table, and he swings them back and forth because the little shit just cannot seem to sit still, ever. He must be really antsy after having been cooped up with a mostly unconscious Derek for most of the past three days. Every time Derek had woken up, Stiles had been there. Once or twice, he’d even been asleep in the chair. That did not look comfortable in any way, especially in the weird position Stiles had been in. 

But Derek had been too out of it to wake up for longer than a minute or so, and so he’d let himself fade back into sleep without commenting on it or waking Stiles. 

“How’s everyone?” Derek finally lets himself ask. 

There are impressions in his head of the people who should be in his pack, but he can’t know for sure that he’s correct. He can’t know for sure why he’s sad about some of these impressions - if it’s because he lost those people too, or because they were injured when this thing happened to him, or… He doesn’t even know how he got here, and why the cleansing ritual Stiles was talking about was even necessary. 

He can trust that Stiles will tell him, though. 

“Isaac is really worried about you,” Stiles scoots over a bit, his lanky body a warm line against Derek’s. “He can’t get away from class, but he’s been calling a lot. He’ll probably come back for Thanksgiving, even though he wasn’t initially planning on it.” 

Isaac. Lahey? Lahey. Curly hair, never gets along with Stiles, ridiculous bromance with… Scott, who was supposed to be Stiles’ best friend forever. Shitty family that Derek got him away from when he pulled him into the pack. They’ve recovered from when Derek tried to push him away - he has to keep Isaac safe, always. Isaac is family. 

Scott is… not someone he will ever see eye to eye with, not completely. But as long as he continues to make Malia (his cousin, Derek still has a cousin) happy, Derek will bite down on a whole bunch of thoughts he has about Scott and how he deems to run the pack. And also on how he’s been treating Stiles, but that’s a whole other story. 

The way Derek feels about Stiles… That might be the real story here. An embarrassing one. 

“Everyone else,” Stiles is clearly looking for words here, and for once he is not quite finding them. “You’ll remember them soon. It’s hard to explain. I don’t want to influence your impressions of them right now. That would be an asshole thing to do.” 

Stiles doesn’t need to worry, because Derek has already figured it out. No one else cares about Derek as much as Stiles does. No one else is worrying like Isaac. His sister is somewhere in South-America, not caring about what is going on with him, and his uncle is basically psychotic. Derek’s already killed him once, and he’s been worried several times now that he’d have to do it again. The rest of the pack is pretty convinced that he’ll heal from this as he’s done from everything else that he’s been through over the course of the last few years. 

He tries not to blame them for that. 

“Don’t worry,” Derek bumps his shoulder against Stiles’ and tries so hard not to get flustered. “I won’t get any thoughts into my head about how you actually give enough of a damn about me to sit at my bedside for three whole days and nights.” 

Because that would be embarrassing. Stiles hasn’t professed any real kind of worry about him, just reassurance that Derek would be himself again soon. He’d messed with Derek mostly, but he’d also been sitting at his bedside like he gives a damn. Like he actually cares. 

“Good,” Stiles’ heartbeat stutters on the lie. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Derek tells him in response. “You were here for three days. I saw you. You were sleeping sometimes, but… I haven’t woken up without you there. Not once. And I haven’t seen someone else. Not once.” 

That has to mean something, it has to. Sure, he doesn’t have all of the context yet. When it comes to Stiles, he mostly has a bunch of random connections to various people, and some deep-seated beliefs about who Stiles is as a person - but no real memories yet. He wonders why other connections formed first, and why Stiles appears to be one of the last people to come back to him. Is there a reason for that? It feels like there should be. 

Is it because Stiles is that important? Or not important at all? He can’t fathom that second one being the truth. 

“You’ll figure it out,” Stiles practically reeks of shame and embarrassment now. “Just give it a few hours, and you’ll be back to normal. You’ll figure it out and you won’t ever want to pry.” 

Stiles is embarrassed by the memories, or at least of some of them. Of the memories that will somehow make this weird relationship between them make sense - Derek is kind of looking forward to them, to putting that puzzle together. He wants to know how they fit - why they fit, and what on earth could be so embarrassing to Stiles, when he is the guy that Derek most associates with the phrase “having no shame”. 

“If not,” Derek is making this argument mostly to fuck with Stiles, “can I call you up to tell you I told you so? I feel like you don’t hear that nearly enough.” 

Maybe the Sheriff would say it to Stiles, occasionally. Probably not so much anymore, now that Stiles is technically old enough to know better. Technically. That is definitely the operative word there. 

“I’m usually the one telling you that,” Stiles huffs, a blush on his cheeks. 

“Of course you are,” Derek believes that completely. “Doesn’t mean I can’t ever be right.”

Stiles makes an extremely skeptical noise and Derek vows that he is absolutely going to be right about this one - and that he’s going to be sure to be right more often in the future, because Stiles can’t always be right. That’s going to go right to his head, and he’s already way too stubborn about jumping right into the thick of things, and…

Derek worries about him. Always has. Probably always will, because let’s face it, Derek is definitely a forever kind of guy. Stubborn. Loyal. Especially when it comes to...

Oh.  _ Oh _ . So that’s…. That’s Stiles. Of course. 

He tries to school his face, because that is a lot of information to have all of a sudden, a lot of blanks to be filled in within a matter of seconds. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Stiles - they’ve gotten past that ages ago - but he just needs a minute. And he wants to get that “I told you so” moment, wants to lord it over Stiles for once. 

Because Derek doesn’t know everything about himself just yet, but he does know how much of a competitive asshole he is, especially when it comes to Stiles. 

“What makes you think I’ll change my mind when all my memories are back?” Derek has to know, even though it’ll embarrass Stiles. 

“Derek,” Stiles sighs, not looking at him even though they’re pressed together from shoulder to knee now. “I know who I am. I know who you are. And I’ve been obvious about it, more obvious than this, probably. You’ve just never… And you don’t have to. I will still do this stupid stuff even if you never… Because you deserve to have someone care about you, and sit at your bedside for three days straight. Because I care too much, again. Like an idiot, again.”

So Stiles does love him. Sure, he avoids ever saying that word, but what else could he mean? He says again, like Derek is another Lydia for him. Only… he isn’t, because Stiles and Derek have never put the other person on a pedestal - they fight and yell at each other and disagree vehemently about what to do next. They’ve been in the metaphorical trenches together for years now - this is no mere teenage crush, no infatuation. 

Derek is in love, and he really fucking hopes that Stiles is too. Because while Stiles is saying that he’s been more than obvious about it, well… Derek has heard the comments about how hot he is dozens of times, even from Stiles. But love? He hasn’t heard a damn thing about love, not from Stiles. For someone who uses so many words, he sure has a hard time talking about his feelings - not that Derek is in a position to say anything about that. 

So he doesn’t say anything now, waits for Stiles to feel more and more awkward, until he basically lights up when his phone buzzes. 

Scott? Probably. 

“I’m going to grab your clothes,” Stiles waves his phone in Derek’s face, like an awkward idiot. “Parrish is waiting outside with all your stuff.”

Oh, Parrish. His… coworker/almost friend. Because Derek’s record doesn’t allow him to be an actual officer of the law, but he can certainly be a consultant for Beacon Hills PD. And it’s good to have a hellhound on his side. 

Maybe Derek doesn’t have all of his memories back yet, but… he’s got the gist. 

He waits for Stiles to leave the room before tracking his phone (by scent, because being a werewolf is kind of awesome and he really shouldn’t take it for granted). He goes straight for number one on his speed dial. 

“Derek, what’s wrong?” Stiles picks up right away. 

“I told you so,” Derek responds, and then hangs up. 

The cursing starts right away, and Derek can hear it even though Stiles is standing outside. Parrish is forced to listen to all of it, but his response seems amused enough that Derek knows he’ll be hearing about this for the foreseeable future. Work should be fun. 

“You’re a damn asshole,” Stiles comes tearing back inside the room. “I can’t believe you.”

Stiles is flushed, breathing heavy, and carrying a bag that should hopefully be filled with clothes - Derek trusts Parrish to get him some stuff, but he’s also expecting there to be no socks or underwear because Jordan can be a shit like that. Shit, maybe Derek does like that guy. Maybe they really are friends. 

“I’m sorry, do you not want me to be right?” Derek is going to milk this for all that he possibly can. “Because we can chalk this up to magic and never talk about this again.”

And yes, Derek is still naked for this discussion, because that is just the kind of karma he has always had. Though, it is definitely helping him right now, because Stiles is distracted enough by Derek’s body that he hardly even realizes that Derek is crowding him against a wall. 

“Fuck you,” Stiles throws the bag at him when he does figure it out. 

A few more steps and Derek would have won, probably. But he is okay with being magnanimous about this one, seeing as how he’s winning the war here. 

“Is that a yes or a no?” Derek aggressively yanks on his jeans. 

Did Parrish really have to bring the really tight jeans with no room for underwear? Clearly. 

“Why are you getting dressed right in front of me?” Stiles is flailing. “Have you no mercy, Derek? Seriously? I’m just a… Oh fuck you, you’re doing this on purpose. Okay, fine. You win.”

Guess he doesn’t even need to put on a shirt. He pulls Stiles in, smirking at him because hello he is winning this, and then finally, fucking finally leaning in for the kiss. He’s been waiting for years for this - he deserves to gloat a little. 

Until Stiles finds out about the pining, because he’s going to mock him forever. Unless he’s been suffering from a similar affliction. Which is starting to seem likely. 

It takes Stiles a hot second to respond, but then he starts kissing back with a vengeance. He grabs at Derek in that patented “Stiles grabby hands” kind of way, and Derek would laugh if Stiles wasn’t trying to suck his brain out through his mouth. 

Fuck. He’s great at this. That’s just not fair. 

“This isn’t a competition, Derek,” Stiles pants, trying to catch his breath. 

“Isn’t it?” Derek replies. 

It isn’t. And it is. But Derek will insist to his dying day that he’s the one who won. And Stiles will always tell him to prove it. Which means he's a winner in every way that counts. 


End file.
